


Sprig of Time

by uchiha_s



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abuse, But takes place in Westeros, F/M, Historical AU, Joffrey Baratheon is his own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-05-03 09:34:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14566158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uchiha_s/pseuds/uchiha_s
Summary: Oneshot, Bolshevik/Ballet AU (lol). King Joffrey's mistress, the Westerosi Ballet's prima ballerina Sansa Stark, is just the spy that the Night's Watch has been searching for--until Jon Snow learns the dark truth of her relationship to King Joffrey.





	Sprig of Time

**Author's Note:**

> This came to me the other day on my way to work. My company recently moved to a building across the street from where my city's ballet performs. It's a really beautiful building and my window looks out over it. I was eating lunch later and thinking about it more, but I didn't write it until today. 
> 
> I know nothing about the Russian revolution, or the Bolsheviks, but this is intended to approximate the time leading up to the Russian revolution of 1917. I did some cursory googling but other than that this is historically inaccurate trash.
> 
> Lastly, there are thousands of Jonsa fics out there so there is a high likelihood that this idea has already been written, especially since the idea seems very naturally Jonsa. If so, I apologize. I don't read fanfic, so any similarities are entirely accidental.

They'd been sleeping in the cargo car of a train for two weeks, running all the way south on the Kingsrail from Queenscrown down to King's Landing. Between shots of bitter vodka and occasional mouthfuls of stale bread, Jon had snatched bits of sleep that never made him feel rested, but there was nothing else to do while they rode; nothing but play cards and smoke and sleep. At first the throbbing, rushing noise of the rails was overpowering, a noise so all-consuming he felt it in his ribs and teeth, and the shrill shriek of the whistle was shattering—but he had got used to them so quickly it had shocked him when he realized it. He'd even got used to the teetering and swaying of the car on the rails—that had felt like being on a ship, and he'd spent weeks at sea before.

The world was different each time he opened his eyes. Through a crack in the car's siding he could glimpse the world speeding by: snow-covered pines darkening treacherous ravines, grim-faced cliffsides; then bustling little villages with tiny hungry little people and cottages and plodding brown donkeys, reminding him of the wooden toys he'd had as a child; and then, increasingly, signs of King's Landing, that smog-smudged city that was topped by the brightly-painted Red Keep and, so close to it, Baelor's Sept, which gleamed even in the murky, grey sunlight and shone like another star atop the city. Baelor's Sept had once been a place of worship, nearly a thousand years ago, for a religion that had fallen out of favor, but had been converted to an opera house two hundred and some years ago—or, so he vaguely remembered learning. He had never cared much for the arts, particularly arts for the wealthy such as opera and ballet.

"Not long now," Mormont muttered next to him, buttoning his coat. Jon tore his gaze from the crack. He could already taste the filth and coal and grime of King's Landing, mixed with the salty tang of the ocean nearby. He hated this place. He'd die in this place, he knew it. He'd faced death many times but ever since joining the Night's Watch he had accepted that it was imminent, as close to him as his own shadow, and would eclipse him at any moment.

It would be worth it. He peered through the crack again at the Red Keep, florid and red amid all of the grim blackened stone surrounding it. His blood pounded harder in his veins at the very sight of it. It was red as an open sore and, in Jon's mind, it leaked rancid pus just like one too. He set his jaw and looked back at Mormont.

"We're meeting her tonight?" he asked, settling back and checking the pockets of his wool coat, ensuring he had all of his few belongings. There was a knife that had once belonged to his younger cousin—Needle, she had called it—that would be crucial in tonight's mission.

It had been ten years since he had seen Sansa Stark. He would need to prove his identity to her. She might not remember him. He knew he looked different; when she had seen him last, he had been a boy, his face smooth and unmarred, but time had changed him. He was a man, now, with a man's face, scarred and hard and covered in a short beard, and a man's voice. He wondered how time might have changed her. She was a dancer—not just any dancer, either; she was _the_ dancer, just as she had always wanted to be. She was the Westerosi Ballet's prima ballerina. And she was King Joffrey's mistress. _You always wanted to fall in love with a prince, Sansa_ , he remembered, looking at Needle. _Is this what you had in mind?_

Somehow, he thought not.

"Yes, and mind you clean yourself up a bit, boy," Mormont grunted, nodding to Jon's frayed coat, smudged boots, and wild hair. "You look like you've been sleeping in a cargo car for weeks," he added wryly.

"I don't think she's expecting that we look like kings," he replied, stowing Needle in his pocket.

"No, but everyone else at the ballet will," said Pyp. His eyes were twinkling; he had been excited about this mission for months. "Can't wait to meet the ballerina. Is she beautiful, Snow?"

"I told you, I barely remember her," Jon said irritably. "Stop asking me about her."

"She must be, if she's the prima ballerina _and_ King Joffrey's mistress," Grenn reasoned.

"What does it matter if she's beautiful? She's going to die for this," Edd said sourly, from underneath his coat. They'd thought him asleep. His voice was slightly muffled by the heavy wool. "It's only a matter of time before they catch her crossing the king."

"We've promised her the best protection," Mormont insisted. "We can't do more than that for her. She's aware of the risks."

Jon remembered Sansa as a silly, dreamy, naive little girl. It was hard to imagine her making this choice to help them. He wondered what had led her to do it, and if she was truly capable of understanding where this would inevitably lead her.

Somehow, he thought not.

The train rolled into Baelor's Station, and everyone buttoned up their coats and pulled their caps low so that their faces were shadowed, and waited with baited breath for the car to be opened. The sounds of the station were chaos: the shriek of the train's whistle, the clamor and din of hundreds of voices, the rush of the steam, the pounding of cars opening, of boots on stone.

At last, there was a clang, and the car door was pulled open by one of the workers who had gotten them into this car.

"See you next time," Mormont said in a low voice to the man, pressing a few gold dragons into his hand discretely as he slid out of the car. But they all knew there would be no next time; they would not be getting back on the train ever again. Jon followed him into the stink and smog of King's Landing.

This was their final stop.

* * *

A glittering vision was staring at her in the mirror. She was all in white: white tulle and white silk dotted with pearls and diamonds. Her shoulders were bare, but she had a purple and green bruise on her upper arm, so the costume had been modified: white tulle, heavy with gems, looped around her upper arms. She couldn't see the bruise now, but the spot was still tender, and the gems sewn into the tulle made the skin throb when she moved her arms.

"I suppose it's lucky that it's Swan Lake," her dresser, Petyr, told her as he smeared black around her eyes. In the low light of her dressing room her blue eyes looked so pale grey that they glittered like diamonds in coal against the black smeared around her eyes. "He's never gone for your face before now, has he?"

They each looked into the mirror to assess Petyr's handiwork, his fingers blackened with polish. A beautiful swan-girl looked back at her. Joffrey's latest fit of rage had been masked perfectly.

"No," she said softly.

"It won't be Swan Lake for much longer," Petyr remarked, taking her chin in his clean hand and tilting her face toward him, studying her features with a critical eye. "When Giselle starts we won't have too many options."

"I know."

Petyr's hand lingered on her jaw too long, but it didn't matter. Tonight, nothing mattered. She could get through anything. Her face might as well have been steel for all his touches, which normally made her skin crawl, could bother her. And the way her left eye and right arm throbbed with Joffrey's anger, it only hardened her resolve further, until that was made of steel, too. "I have an appointment this evening after the performance," she told him, as he turned away from her to wipe his hands clean of the black polish. "So I'll be a little while."

"Oh? The king isn't attending tonight," Petyr remarked, turning back to her, blood red on his fingertips. He never used brushes.

"An old friend of my father's is coming to the performance. I promised to meet him, briefly," she explained. It was not a lie, not really. It just wasn't the whole truth. Jeor Mormont  _had_ been her father's friend, once. 

Petyr rubbed the red into her lower lip with his thumb, too slowly. Normally when he did this it made her sick, but tonight, nothing could touch her.

"A friend of your father's? Surprising that he would be attending the ballet," Petyr murmured, eyes growing black as he caressed her lip. "I thought all of your father's friends had been executed." He pressed down, almost experimentally. Nothing could touch her. She was steel.

"He wasn't one of those friends. He was an older friend, from the war," she replied.

"An older friend? Which one?"

"I think his name is Randyll." The lie, the lie she had been told to tell if asked, came to her lips so easily.

"Randyll? Maybe Tarly," Petyr mused. He pulled away. "You look like Odette."

She got to her feet. Her shoes had been laced already, to just the right amount of tension.

"Not Odile?" she teased, spinning once, briefly, before him.

"Not yet," Petyr parried, picking up the glittering mass of black tulle draped over a chair. "You've always seemed so uncomfortable as Odile. But tonight you seem an unhappy Odette."

"Odette's not meant to be happy," Sansa replied, and she left the room.

* * *

"She'll meet you in the box."

"We're going inside?" Jon balked, looking at Mormont. Their contact, Theon Greyjoy, looked between them, his eyes glimmering with vague amusement, just like Jon remembered him. Theon looked down and made a show of counting the gold dragons, smoke coming from his mouth like a chimney. Mormont shifted, looking unhappy.

"It's the only place that won't draw suspicion. We talked about this already. You've known the plan for weeks."

"Going inside the operahouse was never the plan," Jon countered. "The minute anyone comes in and sees that it's not Randyll Tarly sitting there—"

"—No one's going to come inside," Theon interrupted him. Jon looked plainly at Theon, fixing him with a cold stare. He'd never liked him, and didn't like that they were working together now, but he had no other choices. That didn't mean he had to start liking it. Theon returned the stare. "It's the box on the very end, and the rumor is that she's meeting Randyll Tarly for a very _particular_ kind of meeting," he insisted, arching his brows insinuatingly.

"The rumor that you spread," Jon said, "which ties that rumor, and everything else, all back to you. This is idiocy. Everyone is going to want to gossip about the king's mistress meeting another man in private." He turned away from Theon in disgust, mopping his face.

"He's right, Greyjoy," said Mormont unhappily. "You ought to have kept it simple, kept the story clean. But it's too late, now; too many things have been set in motion. We can't back out now."

Theon had supplied them with marginally better clothing, and they had spent the afternoon changing and grooming, but as Jon looked around their little group in the darkened room, he thought they still looked like a band of rebels, of men who had no home and knew no laws. The finest suits in the world couldn't turn them into princes. This plan was fool's work.

"We'd better set off," Edd said finally. "It's getting dark. It's supposed to start soon."

"Well, let's have a toast, then," Mormont said, and he took out the bottle of vodka. Theon set empty but grubby glasses on the little wooden table around which they stood, and Mormont poured vodka into each one. They each took a glass.

"I am the sword in the darkness," they said together, before throwing back the clear liquor. Jon slammed his glass down and was the first out the door.

The air was damp but the night seemed to glitter as they left the warehouse and set off into the crooked, dark streets. It smelled like shit and sin, and hungry eyes watched them as they made their way toward Baelor's Sept. The closer they got, the less things smelled like shit, and yet it couldn't be completely erased.

The Sept overlooked the whole city, high on a hill, and so the steps leading up to the Sept were monumental. Carriages were scattered like jewels around the foot of the steps, the horses all gleaming white, and ladies in silks and furs emerged, helped by men in sharply-tailored suits. The Sept glowed like a star and even from the foot of the many steps Jon could hear the orchestra preparing for the ballet.

He could still hardly believe he would have to sit through several hours of _ballet_ , of all things, for a five minute conversation.

The imbalance of wealth and poverty—the way only a few people enjoyed things like silks and ballet, on full bellies, in safe homes, compared to the vast majority who suffered—was exactly what he was fighting to end. The ballet was a perfect crystallization of everything he so despised, and he would have to spend the next few hours pretending to enjoy it, pretending to not be disgusted by everything around him.

As he alighted the steps, a gloriously-beautiful woman in a splendid midnight silk gown sent him a look of desire, and he looked away, repulsed. Her gown alone could have fed one of the villages, starving and hopeless, that the train had trundled past on his way here. She would probably wear it once and then forget about it, deeming it unfashionable, and it would be discarded, forgotten, unimportant to her, while children starved in the streets just outside her home.

"Keep a tight rein on yourself, Snow," Mormont huffed in a low voice as they climbed. "We need her. We can't afford to offend her."

"I don't know what you mean," Jon said, slowing his climbing to accommodate the older man. He so often forgot that Jeor was not in his twenties—or thirties, or forties, for that matter. Jeor let out a rough scrape of a laugh.

"You know exactly what I mean. You're as silent as stone until the very worst moment, and then out of nowhere you get smart. We can't have that this time. I know there's bad blood between you and Catelyn Stark's daughter—"

"—There's no bad blood," Jon said flatly. "She was a little girl. She had nothing to do with her mother's actions."

"No, she didn't, yet you still blame her for how Catelyn tossed you out, I know it," Jeor countered. They reached a landing and both paused to turn and look back down at the glittering, smokey city behind them.

"I don't blame her," Jon insisted. "I swear I don't."

"You're a fool, Snow," Jeor laughed, shaking his head, and Jon studied him. "A clever fool, for certain, but a fool nonetheless."

"Then why keep me around? If I'm a fool, then you're a greater fool," Jon said, and Jeor chuckled again as they resumed their climbing.

"Oh, I know I'm a fool, Snow," he mused, breathlessly. "That's my wisdom."

"Thank you for sharing that wisdom. I feel wiser already," Jon said dryly, earning another rasping chuckle.

They reached the entrance to the Sept, where suited men held open the painted doors, letting the groan of cellos and whine of violins float out with the twinkling light and scent of so many perfumes mingling. In spite of the revulsion and hatred he felt for all of this excess, there was something about the cello that had always stirred something in him, in that enchanted way that only music could, and his heart swelled with the music as he entered Sansa's world of music and jewels.

They were led to a box all the way at one end of the horseshoe-shaped building, closest to stage left. The heavy red velvet curtains fluttered slightly; Jon imagined the dancers behind the curtain, flitting about like dragonflies, as they took their seats.

"Isn't there a break at some point?" Jon asked under his breath desperately, as they were suddenly cast in darkness. "Do we really have to wait the _whole damn ballet_ to speak with her?"

"If you ask me that again," Jeor began in a low voice, "I will take that knife out of your pocket and stab you with it."

Even though Jon doubted that Jeor was fast enough to get it from him, he decided against angering the man further, and he settled uncomfortably, miserably, into the velvet chair, scowling in the direction of the stage. For some reason he felt nervous, and he never felt nervous. Perhaps it was because this plan was so flawed, perhaps it was because he didn't trust Greyjoy and never had, perhaps it was because they were, after years, suddenly so close to the man they planned on assassinating.

It wasn't because he was about to see Sansa Stark.

It had been so many years, after all. He barely remembered her.

He wasn't even precisely sure he'd be able to pick her out on stage, from all of the other dancers. Her face was a blur; her hair, though, stood out vividly in his memories, perhaps more vividly than he might have liked to admit.

And then it started. Somehow everyone instinctively knew to be quiet, as the music dissolved, and then, there was the softest whisper of the violins, and the hair on the back of his neck prickled in spite of everything. The violins swayed, and then the eerie voice of an oboe sang a haunting melody, one that cast everything in the darkness of a tangled, gnarled forest, and silhouetted everything with moonlight. And then the heavy curtains parted.

* * *

Sansa waited in the darkness, fluttering her legs, listening to the music, watching the others dance before her. She could barely see the audience, but it was mostly lost to darkness. Somewhere in that darkness was Jon Snow, her cousin, who had grown up with her.

She had not seen him in ten years. So much had happened since then. So much had changed—everything, really, had changed. They had never been close, so it would not be quite like a reunion. Still, she was nervous to see him. He was the only remaining piece of her childhood, besides Theon Greyjoy. Everyone else was gone.

It was just them left.

She dreaded seeing him, but she was curious, too. He had been closer to her brothers and sister; he might as well have been a brother to them, but to her he had always been her orphaned cousin, sullen and quiet. She had seen him laugh with Robb and Arya, but he'd never laughed for her. He had always seemed so disdainful of her, of everything about her: her love for fairytales, her love for pretty dresses, her love for dancing and music. And in turn she had ignored him, burned by his disdain. She imagined he would be even more disdainful of her now: a ballerina, covered in tulle and feathers and jewels, kept by King Joffrey...

And then it was her cue.

* * *

 

He knew her at once.

She danced onto the center of the stage, made of music. Even in the silvery light her red hair gleamed, long pale limbs as bright and pale as the moon. She spun and leapt effortlessly, every movement guided by the strings of the violins and cellos, a tribute to why music and movement had ever been paired together. He drew in a breath sharply; he abruptly realized he had forgotten to breathe. His mouth had gone dry, and he swallowed, feeling ashamed.

"That's her," he breathed to Mormont. Past Mormont, he saw the others entranced, eyes glassy with shock. Perhaps it was because they had spent so many months in hungry, cold darkness. They had been starved for beauty, and now they were drowning in it.

"No surprise that _that's_ the woman King Joffrey takes as his mistress," Jeor remarked in a wry whisper.

Even from so far he could tell she was radiant. Her presence seemed to set everything else aglow.

Jon took Needle out of his pocket and fingered its handle, looking down at the steel in the darkness. He had given it to Arya, whom he had so loved like a sister, and it was all that he had left of the Starks. Sansa would know the blade; much as he had always disdained her he knew she would be clever enough to remember the blade. It would prove his identity, would secure her trust. But he rather thought they would not need anything to win her trust. She had always been as docile and submissive and delicate as a fawn; she would help them willingly, and be hunted and slaughtered for it all the same. Did she know this path led to death—for _all_ of them?

She wilted and blossomed, twirled and soared. Jon forgot about time. He did not even follow the story; he knew it was Swan Lake but he had never cared for fairytales or ballet, and he did not remember the particulars of Swan Lake. But he knew when she danced onto the stage all in black tulle that he was witnessing a transformation of the soul, and there was one burning moment when she was lifted into the air, lovely slender arms arced, neck exposed, when she tilted her gaze, and he could have sworn that she was looking right at him.

Suddenly it was over. All in white tulle again, she fell into her prince's arms, and the music swelled, and the moment had arrived. The curtains closed, and the lights bloomed again, and Jon turned back to the others.

"I'll wait outside the door for her," Theon said in a low voice. "You'll have fifteen minutes."

Greyjoy disappeared into the corridor outside of the box, and they were left to wait. Jon gripped Needle in his palm. No one spoke. It seemed he was not the only one who had entered that strange, dream-like world. Pypar was fidgeting with his hat, and Grenn got up to pace, but they all froze when the crystal-handled knob turned, and Sansa entered the box.

She was taller than he'd realized, nearly as tall as he was, and still clad in the glittering white tulle costume. Black was smeared around her eyes, her skin painted chalky white, her lips blood red. She had been sweating, slightly, and he could see her skin underneath the makeup at her temples as the white melted away. Theon closed the door behind her so that he could stand watch.

Her eyes met his at once in a blistering look. He could not read her look; she might as well have been wearing a mask.

"Sansa Stark," Mormont said at last. "We appreciate your willingness to meet with us."

"We don't have very much time," she said in a cool voice. "I'll be missed back stage; my dresser knows I have an appointment but he is not to be trusted." She looked between them, her gaze flicking over him once more. Disinterested. Dismissive. He was a child once again, unloved and orphaned, unworthy of her attention or affection. Why had she always been so cool toward him? He pushed the anger down.

"I don't know if you remember me," he finally said, stepping forward, "but I'm Jon Snow, and here's my proof." He opened his hand and held out his palm to her. She looked down at Needle and he saw the muscles of her lovely throat ripple as she swallowed. He clenched his teeth.

"I remember," she said simply. Jon stowed Needle back in his pocket, inexplicably furious.

"So," Mormont began, "Greyjoy's told you what we want."

"Joff's movements, his schedule, who he talks with, who he meets with," Sansa summarized. "I can tell you some, but I don't know all of it. I only see him a few nights each week."

Jon's stomach turned at her words. He did not think that Sansa the naive, pretty little girl had imagined she would be used by King Joffrey a few nights a week. She turned, suddenly, pacing, and in the dim light he saw a darkness on her upper arm, peeking out from layers of delicate, glittering tulle. Was it a bruise, or simply a shadow? Perhaps a trace of her makeup? A trick of the light?

"Any details you can provide will help us," Mormont said. "We understand this is an...unusual...risk, and we are willing to pay, though I must warn you it may not be the sort of gold that would matter much to you." He dug a small pouch out of his pocket, but she shook her head and paced again, away from him.

"I don't want your gold," she said.

"Forgive me, but gold's the best way to guarantee loyalty," Mormont said wryly. "I'd feel better if you took it. It makes it a contract."

She looked at him, her face unreadable as stone.

"Nothing guarantees loyalty," she said. "A few gold coins will secure nothing. This risk I am taking should be all the security you need." She resumed pacing. "He'll be attending tomorrow's performance of the ballet, and the next day, he has a meeting with the Dornish prince."

"Where is it?" Jon asked, and her gaze flicked to him, so briefly, then flicked away. 

"At the Red Keep," she replied. "It's a dinner. It will be small, since it's in the Maidenvault, but I don't know who else is attending. It will be late; the Dornish prince likes to eat later in the evening." She paused. "There will be a parade on his name day."

The room seemed to crackle with electricity.

"We'd heard rumors," Jon said finally. "We're... interested... in that day."

She looked at him again. The box felt too hot; he longed to be outside, in the rain and smog, away from Sansa and all of her bare skin. No, that wasn't right, he thought clumsily. Why would he need to run from her skin? _What a strange thought._

"They've already started preparations. All I know is that he's had fittings for his suit," she said to him.

"Where does he meet you?" Mormont asked now.

"At my apartments on the Street of Sisters. They're highly-guarded; you will not be able to get in," she replied smoothly, but Pypar chuckled.

"I almost want Snow to try," he explained hastily, at her look. "He's quite good at breaking into places."

"I suppose there must be an art to trespassing," she acknowledged, voice still cool.

"Not nearly as much as to ballet, I'm sure, but it has its merits," Jon retorted. He felt Mormont eyeing him.

"We can offer some protection," Mormont said now, "should our plans progress as we intend."

"No one can protect anyone," she said. "I have to go now. Meet me in this box the night after the Dornish prince meets Joff, if you can make it."

And she turned and left before any of them could say another word.

"Hard to believe you grew up together," Pypar remarked. Jon stared at the door, his face and neck too hot, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. For some reason, every time he blinked, he saw that shadow on her upper arm.

* * *

Theon Greyjoy was waiting in the darkened corridor when she came out, but she pushed past him, heart pounding in her chest and hands shaking.

"San—" he began behind her, but she ignored him and kept walking, holding her head high, the way she had been doing since she had first started ballet lessons. Posture straight, chin almost perfectly level—but just a bit high, as her teacher, Miss Mordane, had taught her. The silk costume, so tight it constricted her breathing, seemed unbearably tight. Her eyes burned and she told herself it was just the black makeup bothering them.

Petyr was waiting in her dressing room. She would have given anything to be alone, even for a few minutes.

"What is wrong, sweetling?" he cooed as she entered. He had always been able to see through whatever mask she constructed and she hated it. It felt like he was peering beneath her skirts.

"The polish bothers my eyes," she said, looking away and sitting in her cushioned chair before the mirror.

"Was it Randyll Tarly?" he asked, changing tacks and going to stand behind her, unbuttoning her costume from the back. His fingers grazed her skin.

"I didn't catch his last name, but I think so. I didn't remember him. He just talked at me the whole time about this or that. I barely listened; I'm so tired."

She stood up again after undoing her ballet shoes, and Petyr slid the costume down from behind in a rustle of silk and tulle. She stood naked in front of him, save for her white stockings. The tulle and silk dropped to her ankles and she felt his breath, minty and cool, on her shoulder.

"The rumor," he began softly, tracing her shoulder blade, "is that you visited with him in the way you visit with the king."

"There was hardly any time for anything like that," she said over the lump in her throat. Theon had warned her he would spread such a rumor; he had intended it as help but she had thought it to be idiocy, and that it would guarantee that the meeting would catch attention. She hadn't said anything, though, because it hardly mattered. She knew where this would lead. There was only one way this could go. She had known it the moment she had agreed to help.

But even as she felt Petyr undo her hair, felt it cascade in a whisper of touch down her back, her eyes burned with tears. She had not cried in so many years. She was surprised she even still could cry. But every time she blinked she saw Jon Snow's eyes, saw the way he had looked at her when she had first stepped into the box. She had barely managed to keep up the mask, but every time she had met his eyes she had felt it crack. For one burning moment she had been transported back in time, to her childhood, to the beginning of everything, to a time before she had known grief and pain and loneliness.

He had grown into such a lovely man. She would never have guessed that he would grow to be so handsome. He had always looked so sullen and sour as a child; his face had been so long, like Arya's, his hair so wild. But he had grown into his features, and had grown into his sullen nature. She almost wanted to laugh at how becoming a man had transformed him from a sulky child to a mysterious, dark man.

It was just that seeing the evidence of time was painful sometimes. Like how sometimes seeing the trees blossom in springtime made her sad, knowing that soon the blossoms would fall and give way to green leaves, and it would be beautiful but death would follow so soon; the more lovely something was the more imminent its death was.

He had to know where this would lead, too. He had to know that he had signed for his own execution long ago; he may as well have tied his own noose, and now he had helped her to tie hers, too. She would probably be taken anonymously, with poison or in the darkness of the cage in which she was kept; he would at least get to go with glory, by firing squad. He was a rebel, but she was just a woman, and not even a virtuous one at that. She was a performer, a mistress. No one would cry for her, no one would mourn her death.

* * *

"Why are you sending me?"

"Because she knows you and she'll open up to you more." Mormont's voice told him he would brook no argument. Jon stepped into the dim glow of the lamp hanging overhead. His stomach was twisted with hunger.

"I want to go with everyone to—"

"—I don't give a damn what you _want_ , Snow. You said you'd do whatever was necessary, and today, you taking intelligence from Stark is what's necessary," Mormont said furiously. "She had a whole night with the king—" Jon clenched his teeth, "—so she ought to have new details."

Across the table, their faces rendered skeletal in the overhead light, they stared each other down. "You swore there was no bad blood, boy."

"For the last time, this isn't about any bad blood, and there isn't bad blood," Jon shot back. "But I came to King's Landing to plan the start of a revolution—not sit and watch the _ballet_ —"

"—Then don't watch the ballet, boy! But you'll sit in that damn box while Stark twirls about so that no one sees a strange man slipping in and out of Baelor's Sept, and at the end of it you'll listen good when she tells you the king's plans and whatever else she's got to offer, and then you'll come back here with those details so we can plan a revolution. We've all got our roles, and you'll play yours."

And so he found himself venturing alone to Baelor's Sept on this night, while his comrades all went to meet a man about a shipment of rifles. He ascended the many steps, so consumed with disgust that he was almost surprised when he reached the doors and was confronted yet again with all of that splendor.

He didn't want to look at Sansa Stark.

He did want to look at Sansa Stark.

He didn't, he did. He did not know what he wanted.

She made him feel ashamed of himself, made him feel small and powerless and unloved. And yet the more he thought of the shadow on her upper arm the more he was certain it was a bruise. And he might have been able to dismiss it as a bruise from dancing—perhaps another dancer's hand hit her arm; perhaps she had fallen—yet he had seen too much of life, had learned how you got bruises like that. There was really only one way: from spoilt, angry men. And the more he thought of the ice in her eyes and in her voice as she had spoken the more he thought she was suffering, suffering as much as any hungry child on the streets, and he did not think he could bear to see it. It was not just that he had known her as a child; it was not just that she had never loved him; it was that it went against everything that fueled him, to think that this pretty bejeweled thing, drowning in splendor, could be suffering too, could be just as much a victim as the children who died, forgotten, on the streets as he nearly had. He was fighting to end the hard line between rich and poor, and she was proof that the line was blurred, wasn't as hard as he'd thought, and at this point—with the assassination so close, so imminent, and therefore his death so close, so imminent—he could not afford to have that line blurred. Things needed to be kept clean, kept straight. He couldn't lose focus now.

Theon Greyjoy was waiting for him, and escorted him to the same box, all the way at the end, closest to the stage.

"Just you this time?" Theon asked as they reached the box.

"No, the others are invisible," he said flatly, before pushing past him into the box. He heard Theon laugh slightly, almost reluctantly. He hadn't meant to be funny. "She's good to meet tonight?" he asked as he took his seat, the same one, closest to the wall.

"She is."

Theon lingered a moment. Jon felt his presence behind him. The urge to ask Theon about Sansa, about the bruise, welled up but he suppressed it. _We've all got our roles_ , he reminded himself. So he clenched his fists and stared at the red velvet. It made him think of the blood red paint on Sansa's lips, made him think of the blood red of the Red Keep.

And then the curtains parted and his heart seemed to soar and wander with the music. He hated how it moved his soul, he despised its loveliness. He wished he could have been bored, but he could not make himself look away from the stage. And once Sansa appeared, a revelation of red hair and starlight, it was worse. She had been made for dancing, made for expressing music with her long, lovely limbs. It was all the more lovely because it soon would end, as all beauty must.

It was the same ballet—Swan Lake. He still didn't know the whole story, but it didn't matter. When the curtains closed after she once again slumped, lifeless and dead, into her prince's arms, he was jolted, as though he'd been shaken from a dream. The murmuring of the crowd rose; it was time, now. He got up and paced, until he realized he was tracing her steps from the night before; then, he stopped, ashamed for a reason he could not identify.

The knob jiggled and then the door swung open, and she appeared before him. Theon swung the door shut, and now they were alone.

For a moment they simply regarded each other in the stifling darkness. Beads of sweat had formed along her brow and temples, making her makeup drip; a tendril of red hair had come free from the tight bun and clung damply to her neck just below her ear.

"It's just me tonight," he said, just for something to say. She looked away from him, folding her arms across her chest. It shifted the white tulle around her arm; it was an old bruise, for certain.

"I-I have more details on the name day parade," she said at last, still not looking at him. He stared at the bruise. She would have more, for certain; where were they? Lurking beneath her dress? Masked by the chalky white and black paint on her lovely face? He had wondered why she was helping them but perhaps the bruise was his answer.

Or perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps there was more—perhaps there was worse.

She risked a glance at him—quicker than a kiss. He saw her swallow. When she turned her head, he saw more of her temple, saw the black paint melting into the white. "It will start here—Baelor's Sept—and continue along the Street of Sisters. He'll have his own carriage, open-air, and pulled by four horses."

"Anyone with him on the carriage?"

"I think just the queen, but I can find out for certain. There will be men in cars in front of him and behind him, with guns. The parade is supposed to start at midday."

"And it'll go all the way down the Street of Sisters?"

"Yes." She looked at him, finally. "Yes, my apartment has a view of the street. No, you won't be able to use it."

"It will be guarded even then?" He didn't know how she'd known what he would ask. A wry smile, so miserable, twisted her painted red lips.

"I won't be allowed out," she replied sardonically. "Not when the queen is making such a public appearance. It will be too much of an embarrassment for her."

This he knew she had never wanted, never asked for. She had been promised to Joffrey, once upon a time, but Ned Stark's choices had taken that from her. And yet, in spite of setting her aside, Joffrey had not fully given her up. He saw it now, with sudden clarity. She had never had a choice.

"I-I think you know where all of this leads," he began slowly. She looked away from him and scoffed.

"Don't." Her voice was ice once again. "It's too late to back out."

"Would you, if it weren't?"

She still wouldn't look at him.

"No."

There was a soft knock on the door. Their time was up. He saw her blinking, fast. Saw her swallow again. Saw her shoulders lift, ever so slightly. Something tightened in his chest, behind his ribs, and made it hard to breathe. "I-I haven't—" she began, and she turned on her heel, so that her back was to him. "I don't know why I'm becoming emotional," she said, back tense. He could see so much of her skin, could see her body tensing, the muscles in her back shifting. Dancers had to be quite strong, he thought. Those leaps and twirls looked so effortless but that was because she was strong—perhaps as strong as he was, even, now that he thought of it. "I haven't cried in years. I'm sorry."

There was a knock again.

"There's nothing to be sorry for," he replied.

Another knock, harder this time. "Y-you should go."

She nodded mutely. He heard her draw in a deep breath, but when she turned, a line of black ran from her eye down her cheek to her chin. "Wait," he said. He pulled down on his sleeve and took the hem of it. "You've got—" he pointed to her face. "Maybe I can sort of—"

"—Right—"

He placed one hand on her jaw. The makeup was sticky beneath his fingertips and her skin was warm; he could feel her jaw trembling slightly at his touch. He smeared the line of wet inky black. She flinched at the pressure.

"Sorry," he breathed. His sleeve came away grey but her skin was blue beneath the makeup. A fresh bruise. The sleeve was taking up too much of the paint; he tried his thumb instead, smearing the white back over the bruise even as he thought he might be sick with rage. "Is that the king's work?" he asked, his voice rough.

Another knock.

"I have to go," she said, and she turned away from him just as the door opened. A short man with a pointed beard and swarthy, clever eyes was there. Theon stood behind him, looking furiously at Jon. Jon instinctively looked away.

"Randyll Tarly?" the man asked. Jon looked back at him.

"No, I'm his son. Sam," he replied. He saw the man's clever eyes taking in his suit, how it was finely-made but old and worn; not at all the suit of a man who would have a box seat at the ballet. Even in the dim light he knew it was plain as day.

"Petyr, my makeup is running," Sansa said. "Can you help me?" And she padded away in her silk slippers with the little man, leaving Jon alone in the box with a nameless rage.

* * *

"Sam Tarly. I thought he was dead," Petyr said once they had gotten to her dressing room. "How odd. He looked like a Stark, too. Like Lyanna Stark. Did you notice? I'm sure you did, with clever eyes like yours, sweetling."

Crying was a luxury she didn't have. The urge to cry was stifled once she met Petyr's eyes in the mirror. She did not know why Jon Snow made her want to cry. Maybe it was guilt for how she had treated him. Maybe it was grief, because everything that she had lost, he had lost, too. Or maybe it was the way he had looked at her, the way his gaze had gone to her arm, the way his gaze had grown so cold at the sight of the bruise on her face. For a moment it had felt like the bruises mattered, it had felt like she mattered, as more than a pretty dancing girl or a toy for Joffrey to tear apart.

* * *

"He beats her."

They were sitting around the little table, in near-darkness, drinking to stave off the hunger. A pile of guns lay in the corner. Details of the parade lay on the table between them all. He had written them down as soon as he could, lest he forget. Next to those details was a map of King's Landing, with the Street of Sisters marked out.

"Well, I suppose helping plan his assassination is as good revenge as any," Mormont mused. The vodka had made Jon's jaw feel slack and his tongue heavy. His head throbbed. "Lucky for her she's got enough to eat. She gets to dance and prance about in pretty dresses and do as she likes, and in exchange he slaps her about."

"I don't see that as a fair exchange," Jon replied. The others had fallen asleep. It was just them now. Grenn had nodded off into his crossed arms on the table, empty glass by his head. Sam, Edd, and Pypar were asleep on the floor, huddled in their coats.

"Oh, Snow," Mormont sighed, shifting, and he poured more vodka. "You want to put the whole world to rights, and get justice for every last person, that's your problem."

"Don't you?"

"I do, but I know it can't be done," Mormont conceded, leaning forward to pour the last of the vodka into Jon's glass. "So I get justice for as many as I can, and accept what I can't. If we succeed, we'll change the world. That is enough for me."

"Is this more of your wisdom?"

"Yes, and you ought to listen, for once in your bloody life—what's left of it, at any rate." Mormont tossed back the vodka and slammed the glass down. "Get some rest, boy."

Jon finished his own glass, but he did not get up from the table. Mormont turned off the lamp, setting them all in darkness, and in the thick blackness he heard the older man crawl to the floor and nestle into his coat. Before long the room was filled with his growl-like snores, and Jon was alone with his anger and guilt.

He didn't know when he'd made the decision. He was used to drinking vodka on an empty stomach so he couldn't quite blame it on the vodka. But somehow he was out on the street, huddled into his coat in the pouring rain, slipping through the darkness—he so excelled at it—toward the Street of Sisters.

He knew where her apartment was. Mormont had marked it on the map; he had been hoping they might use it as their view to Joffrey—from which they would shoot—and still thought they might be able to convince Sansa to help them make it work. _They'll be making use of every guard,_ Mormont had countered, when Jon told him what Sansa had said. _They won't bother guarding the king's dirty mistress._

Somehow Jon thought Sansa might be more likely to be right about this than Mormont.

It didn't take long to reach the Street of Sisters, and her apartment overlooked one of the squares that dotted the long, broad avenue. He found it quickly; it was on the top storey. It would have been a perfect vantage point, though perhaps a bit far. He didn't know the quality of the rifles yet; didn't know whether they'd be able to make such a shot.

Her light was on, and soldiers in dark uniforms prowled the entrance. In the shadows, Jon watched the lit-up windows for a glimpse of her. He saw a flash of red-gold—her hair was down—but he was too far, and she was too high up. He wondered if the king was with her, if the king would hit her again tonight. He would kill the king, but she would undoubtedly die, too. They all would. Even if they succeeded in overthrowing the government, there would be death.

She would rather be dead than continue with her life, and it was this thought that he could not look away from.

Sansa Stark, that delicate, innocent fawn, that girl who had danced practically before she could walk, that girl who had been made by music, would rather be dead than alive.

It seemed such a ridiculous contradiction of everything he had ever believed. If Sansa Stark did not want to be alive then life itself seemed damned. She had existed as a symbol of everything that was unnecessary and wonderful about life; someone who was simply beautiful for the sake of being beautiful, who danced for the sake of dancing and sang for the sake of singing.

He could have slipped past the guards. It would not have been difficult, for him. The windows were wide and deep and the building was decorated with so much stone scrollwork that he would have had plenty of handholds. He could have done it, with ease.

But what then? He could not magic her out of her apartments and away from the guards. Even if he could, why would she go? He had nothing to offer her, not even safety or companionship. He could not even offer her justice.

He went back. He left her there, in her gilded cage. Sansa Stark would rather be dead than alive and there was nothing he could do about it.

* * *

"Will you be meeting Sam Tarly again tonight?" Petyr smeared black makeup over her bruise.

"Yes."

"He's quite handsome. I don't recall Randyll Tarly being so handsome."

She was steel.

"I suppose he is."

"I suppose when you have King Joffrey in your bed more often than not, even the handsomest man will pale in comparison."

"Yes, that's true."

"It just is interesting," Petyr began, wiping the black from his fingers and dipping them in the red, "because, you see, I've been asking around for you about this Sam Tarly..." Fingers pressed into her lips, harder than usual, "...and Sam Tarly's been missing. For years. And he wasn't a handsome fellow. He was fat as an ox."

He was pinching her lip now. "You're being lied to. Or," he paused, crouching before her so they were eye-level, still pinching her lip, "you're lying."

She did not flinch from his gaze.

"I am lied to all the time. Day in, day out," she replied. "What does it matter if he is Sam Tarly or not?"

Petyr studied her.

"It matters," he began in a dangerously soft voice, "because I believe that man is Jon Snow, a known member of the Night's Watch...the majority party," he continued, eyes glittering, "...a party rumored to be planning King Joffrey's assassination."

She was steel. "I wonder why such a man would want to meet with you?" His thumb smeared the red paint on her lip.

"You heard the rumors," she replied, eyes unseeing. When she moved her lips they closed around his fingertip, briefly. She knew he liked the feeling. She was steel. "Every man has needs. Even this Jon Snow may have needs."

"But you would know Snow. You grew up with him, did you not?"

"I haven't seen my cousin in years." She was steel. "I do not even recall his face."

"Not even a face so clearly Stark?"

"He does not look like a Stark to me." She was steel. "I hear the music."

"Yes, of course." He rose from his crouch and turned away from her to wipe the paint from his fingertip.

It was harder to dance, tonight. Her body ached from Joffrey's latest rage, and her heart was heavy. She had always been able to use her sadness, use her grief, and could channel it into each movement, lending every turn, every spin, every leap, a different, powerful feeling, but tonight she felt she was made of wood, arms and legs controlled by thin, near-invisible strings. Not even the music could move her, and Swan Lake had always been one of her favorites.

Jon Snow was watching—or perhaps he wasn't; perhaps Petyr had already alerted the police and he was being arrested, or maybe they would simply kill him on the spot. Maybe they'd put a bullet through the back of his head right there, in the box. Joff had always hated the ballet; he would love to do something that would horrify her so much, that would ruin the performance so thoroughly.

He kept her not because he loved her, or because he wanted her, but because he despised her.

And at last, when it had ended, she slipped backstage, and Theon was waiting there for her in the shadows, as he had the last night that she had met Jon Snow. She rushed off with him, wondering what she might find. Maybe the police would burst in on their meeting and execute her on the spot, too.

"This time," Theon said under his breath, as he placed his hand on the knob, "come at the first knock."

"I know," she replied, and then she slipped inside.

The box was dark, as usual. She was embarrassed at how much she was sweating, knowing it was making her makeup run, probably staining her costume, too. As soon as the door shut behind her, he turned to her.

"They know the Night's Watch is planning something," she said at once in a rush, "and they will be on the lookout."

"I know."

"They're going to do raids in Flea Bottom, and elsewhere, looking for the Night's Watch. And Petyr—my dresser, the man from the other night—knows who you are."

Joffrey had forced himself on her with profound violence as he had seethed about the Night's Watch—the so-called majority party—and how much trouble it was causing him. She would not let Jon know this. She would take anything if it meant Joffrey's death. Every hit, every slap—it would all be worth it.

"Do they suspect you?" Jon asked, stepping closer. He smelled like smoke and vodka and gunpowder.

"Yes. Petyr does," she whispered. She heard him draw in a short breath but it was so dark that she could not perceive his face.

"Why are you doing this?" he breathed, his voice so filled with misery. Her stupid eyes were burning with stupid tears again. "You will die for this."

"So will you," she said furiously, turning away from him, pressing her fingertips to her eyelids. She could not cry again. It was a luxury she no longer had. She would not cry again. She was steel, she was steel, she was steel—wait, no, she wasn't. She was flesh and blood and tears and she felt them trickling down her cheeks, hot and murky with paint. Her shoulders shook. Jon Snow would think her a fool. But he already thought her a fool, so why should it matter?

"But—"

"But what?" she hissed. "But I'm too stupid? Too silly? Too frivolous? I know you always thought me foolish. I'm sorry that you must exchange information with a foolish girl like me."

She heard him laugh, so quietly.

"I always thought you hated me. But I see it now."

"See what?" The tears were still coming down, dripping grey onto her tulle skirt.

"You didn't hate me. You thought I hated you."

"O-of course I didn't hate you. Why on earth would I hate you?"

"I'm a fool."

"You're in good company," she told him, her voice thick with tears. Why couldn't she stop them? "I'm told I'm the biggest fool there ever was."

"Let me help you." His words were quick, quiet.

"You can't help me."

There was a knock on the door. She swallowed her tears. She knew her face was a mess of grey. "I have to go. My next performance is in four days. I will meet you here if I can."

And she left, before she cried any more tears, before she gave any more of herself over to him.

* * *

The plan was in motion now, a great machine of steam and coal and steel that could not be stopped now. They had the guns, and the rest of the Night's Watch was on its way. It would be enormous, bloody, terrible. It would change everything. Each day was so filled with secrets, with meetings, with the exchange of guns and gold, passwords and places and times told in whispers. The work of years was finally coming to a head, and yet it was a blur. She had ruined his glory. Everything tasted like blood. They suddenly had more food to eat yet he could eat none of it. Sansa would die. His own death did not matter. Hundreds, maybe thousands would die, and yet hers was the one that he could not stomach, the one that made it seem like war and not like justice.

Each day that he waited to see her again was a small death of its own. Each day that passed was another chance lost to him, another step closer to a world in which the moon had been put out, in which the stars had been stolen from the sky, a step closer to the slain fawn in the forest. Seeing her again would mean that they had only come closer to the time at which they would die. If he did not die on Joffrey's name day, it would be soon after that, and for her, the same. The truth of the plan, and all of its conspirators, would come out quickly. Mormont had warned them all that things would move fast, faster than they were ready for, and they had all sworn oaths to the Night's Watch and to the people, but Sansa had sworn no oaths and would not die in glory.

And so he sat through yet another night of Swan Lake, and he allowed himself, for the first time, and perhaps the last time, to completely feel the music. It had always moved him, but he had hidden from that part of himself, ashamed of it, guilty of loving something that was only beautiful, that served no purpose of survival, that was beautiful for the sake of beauty.

But as he watched her dance, each movement so filled with emotion, he thought that perhaps there _was_ a purpose to it. It was not beauty for the sake of beauty; it was a way of speaking to the world, a way of speaking that would span generations and peoples. The way his blood seemed to sing along with the cello, the way his chest tightened at the turn of the violin's melody, was universal and everlasting. Music and beauty changed the world and shaped it much as any revolution ever would.

Joffrey would die, and a new government would rise, and then that government would be overthrown, too; but Swan Lake would be forever. Their names would be forgotten but hundreds of years from now people would still know the melody of the opening strings, would still be able to hum the waltzes, without ever having chosen to learn them. And hundreds of years from now, he was certain, some other lovely girl would dance upon the stage all in glittering tulle, tracing the same steps that Sansa had—if not here, then in another theatre—surrounded by gilded wood and crimson velvet.

It ended too soon. Time was passing so much faster now; Mormont had been right. It was all too fast, now. He couldn't seem to breathe properly; it was like his body sensed its end was approaching—mere days away, now—and was failing already.

He watched the knob turn, watched her appear before him like some vision. Why was it that it was only now, when it was too late, that he was finally understanding why Swan Lake had been written, why the violinists closed their eyes as they pulled the bow, why anyone had ever thought to tell a story with their body?

"I don't have anything for you," she whispered in the darkness. "I don't think he'll tell me anything else from now on. ...There is probably no point to meeting anymore."

He couldn't see her face in the darkness, but he knew she was crying again. He heard her gasp, a short, quiet sound, and could barely see her hold her hands to her face. There was a searing pain in his chest. He couldn't help her. It was too late.

"There is, though," he said. "I-I want to see you again."

There wasn't any need for it, except that he wanted it. It wasn't necessary for survival. It was a luxury, a luxury that he could not afford, but he wanted it.

"F-for what?" He felt her turn away, swiftly. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I always cry in front of you."

"You can cry. If you want to."

"But I can't." Her voice hardened. "I have to go."

"He didn't knock yet. There's still time." He was desperate, it was going too fast, slipping through his fingers. "You don't have to go."

"I thought I might find you dead when I got here," she confessed. "Or that I might be killed when I got here. Maybe when we open that door it'll happen."

"Maybe."

"I thought you hated ballet. But you've been here every time."

"I thought I did, too." He swallowed. "But it's beautiful."

"Why do you want me to stay?"

"So I can kiss you." There was no point in lying; there was so little time left. It didn't matter, anyway. "So I can save you."

"You can't save me."

She paused. "But you can kiss me. There's an alley on the back of my building. If you approach from the Street of Steel they won't see you."

There was heat blooming along his skin.

"Tonight?"

"Tonight. Midnight."

There was a soft knock. "I want to know what it feels like," she confessed, her hand on the knob.

"What _what_ feels like?"

"To be kissed," she said, and then she slipped out the door.

* * *

She hadn't known what to wear. In the low light of her room, in front of her vanity, she stared at the fading bruise around her eye. Makeup could not hide it completely, and he knew it was there, anyway, but it made her feel so ugly, and it made any pretty dress feel so pointless. And anyway, maybe he wouldn't come after all. So she dressed in her pajamas, peony-colored silk, and brushed out her hair, and watched her clock, counting the minutes, watching them ebb away.

Her apartment was splendid, filled with silk and crystal and brocade and mahogany and velvet and jewels. Flowers were perched on nearly every surface. She was drowning in beauty, strangled by it. She paced about her apartment. Jon would be horrified by it, horrified by the excess and luxuries spilling from every surface. She didn't even know why she had invited him, except that he was beautiful and kind and she wanted him, and wanted to be kissed.

At midnight, her heart jolted. It was time. He wouldn't be there, she told herself. It was an unnecessary risk. It was pointless, it was frivolous, as frivolous as ballet. She sprayed on some perfume, then regretted it, but it was too late to undo it, so she crept out the door in her silk pajamas and silk slippers and a heady cloud of roses, and down the stairs, holding her breath, to the back alley that was too hard to get to from the street, and therefore no guards had been placed there.

And he was there, waiting for her. Waiting to kiss her.

He was standing in the rain, in a frayed woolen coat, soaked, his hair clinging to his skin in sodden curls. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, more beautiful than any of the treasures in her apartment, more beautiful than Swan Lake. She opened the door, her heart pounding, and he slipped into the darkened hall, and took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. Water soaked through the silk of her pajamas wherever they touched, and it made her shiver even though she had never felt so warm. His lips sliding against hers was the most perfect friction, the sweetest taste. She touched his hand, and he pulled away from her, breathless. In the cool darkness she led him back up the stairs. The soldiers were just outside, so close that she could hear their boots on the wet pavement.

She closed the door to her apartment and then turned to face him. He had changed out of his suit, into clothes that were much plainer, and even shabbier. He was completely soaked through, but it wouldn't matter. In the low light she saw his dark eyes focus on her face, on the fading darkness around her eye.

There was so little time. She didn't want to talk about Joffrey, or bruises, or revolution, or even everything that had happened since the last they had seen each other. She just wanted to kiss him again. So she walked towards him and they met in the middle, and she gripped his sodden coat in her fists and kissed him again. They stumbled together, so that she was pressed against the wall. "Wait," she said against his lips, "the lights. They'll be able to see." They broke apart and she went to the lamp on her vanity table, and with numb fingers pulled the chain. They were cast in darkness once more. The night was dark; it offered little light, but she could just barely see him as he walked toward her.

Desperation took over. The apartment was silent save for their breathing, ragged and desperate, and the interminable, inevitable ticking of her clock. She wished she had smashed it, but as she pushed his coat off of him, and then his shirt, she forgot about time and about clocks ticking. There was only his skin, warm and still damp from the rain that had soaked through his clothes, and then he was kissing her neck as he unbuttoned her pajamas and pushed them off her shoulders, kissing along her bare skin as he went. She fisted her hands in his wet hair and gasped as he kissed between her breasts and then down her stomach, until he was kneeling before her, untying the drawstring of her pajamas, and then pushing them down, too. She had never noticed how the silk felt against her skin before; she had never noticed how good it felt.

And then he was kissing between her legs, his hands on her hips, and she thought she might collapse as her fingers fisted in his hair. She gasped, and let him guide her backwards, onto her bed. He was kissing along her inner thigh, then kissing her between her legs again, and then touching her, too, and she writhed beneath him, shuddering and gasping. She wanted him, wanted _more_ , even though it was already too much. Something within her was rising up, something she had never known before. She tried to hold on, digging her heels into her mattress, biting her lip, but it crashed over her anyway, in the most perfect and strange flood of heat.

She was pulling him upward again, her hands grasping blindly, and then he was kissing her again, the taste strange and salty and sweet, sliding into her slowly, gently. It was all the more beautiful because it was final, because there could be nothing after this. His forehead was pressed against hers as they moved together, gasping, fingers laced together. She was drowning in him, in his scent, his touch, in the soft gasp that he made against her lips as he found his release.

They lay together in the silence, slick with rain and sweat and desire, catching their breath and listening to the clock tick away their time. 

"There's a song," she finally said, breaking the silence. " _Let No Man Steal Your Thyme_. Mother sang it to me." 

"And now I've stolen it." 

" _Come all you fair and tender maids, that flourish in your prime. Beware, beware, keep your garden fair; let no man steal your thyme,_ " she sang. " _For when your thyme is past and gone, he'll care no more for you. And every place where your thyme was waste will all spread o'er with rue_." 

She felt him smile against her skin. "You didn't steal it; I gave it to you. The last of my thyme." 

"I've got nothing for you in return," he admitted drowsily. "I don't own anything." 

"Only your time."

"Then I'll give you that. You can have all of it. But there's not much." 

She thought of Odette wilting at last into Prince Siegfried's arms, thought of that strange melody that strung together the whole ballet, thought of her mother singing to her as she brushed her hair.

Everything beautiful had to end, but that made it all the more beautiful. 

 

 


End file.
